


The Misadventures of Mister R

by thelichking



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Classic Alice (Web Series), Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Books, Old-Fashioned, Other, Reading, Writer's Block, Writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5203610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelichking/pseuds/thelichking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An adventure through fantastical places as a not-very-good author attempts to find his lost muse. If you like the show 'Classic Alice', you'll like this. Give feedback & I'll post more...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I need your feedback. I have so much of this book - should I post it? Leave notes.

Chapter One: The Disruption

Mister William Rishley was of no interesting birth, a good name, perhaps, due simply to time, but little else. Until recently, he had led a solitary life in a home deep inside a wood, feigning an apathetic distance from the town just a mile away. He fancied himself a writer (though he was, admittedly, a rather poor one and several of his poems waxed and waned on the topic of the fruitless, deadened path he carved from his lonely house to the well outside it) and made no effort to tidy his appearance on any day; he  
wore his ink stains and mopish brown hair like some badge of honor while waving his hands and arms about dramatically as he spoke to his chairs. To Mister William Rishley, the admittance of anyone into his three-roomed world would be nothing short un-authorial, a mortal sin to the Gods of Poets. And so, he lived in his cottage in the woods, shouting story ideas at chairs, banging pots when he had a literary breakthrough, and calling to his dead path in archaic and unnecessary terms. That is, as I said, until recently.

It was an unfortunate turn of events that not even Mister William Rishley's perhaps-good-name could alter that found this same said Rishley no longer living in his cottage or near his path. The day in question was a simply lovely day, not a cloud in the sky, and Rishley had fixed his morning's helping of both tea and coffee (for, you see, as a serious writer, Rishley could never figure which he should drink, tea or coffee, and so he was forced to have both), which rested on a tray filled with a box of tobacco and thin papers. He carried these accessories to his broken, battered garden where he sat upon a broken, battered lawn chair and stared into his murky, ashen pond while thinking of what life, if any, might lie under the surface – and immediately, Rishley's mind sped into the space it filled whenever he thought he had a brilliant idea for a work of literary art. Alternating sips of coffee and tea, Rishley continued to sit, ponder, and brood until a mosquito landed on his arm, piercing the fair skin just under his rolled-up white sleeve. Rishley moved his hand quickly, preparing to slap the insect, but suddenly thought better of it and paused, hovering over the blood-sucking vermin. 

“Aha,” Rishley whispered, smile creeping onto his face and green eyes shimmering. “Aha! 'Upon the marbled flesh, I wait... lapsing... lapsing into a dignatory (...that is a word?) state! A tumbled muss of hair and bone, but I care not – I'm not alone!'” Rishley leapt from his chair, creating quite a racket, and laughed brilliantly at his own genius, proud of his creative prowess.

The mosquito, however, had quite flown away and when Rishley looked back at his arm for further inspiration, he was met with a small red welt that had started to tingle. Just as Rishley began to reach for his sleeve to pull it over the offensive red hue to a perfectly pale arm, the house emitted a noise it had never given before:

There was a knock.  
Now, knocks can be startling when one thinks one is alone, but imagine, for a moment, how shocked Mister William Rishley must have been upon hearing this rapping. Alone not for a mere afternoon, but for twelve and a half years, Rishley never bothered making friends or finding young women to bring home, as men his age certainly did (and do). In fact, the last time Rishley had spoken to anyone without uttering the words “tea”, “tobacco”, or “coffee” was at least four years ago – and that was simply to instruct a child to get out of his way, for the last time, goddammit. A knock was not highly recognizable to Rishley, not at all.

So it is understandable that it took our fair Mister Rishley a good minute to figure out what had happened at the front of his house. His overactive imagination had, at first, leapt to the conclusion that there was a bike of bees banging on the door, hellbent on avenging the honey Rishley had stolen earlier that year. Then, Rishley thought that the door was, perhaps, simply falling off. This seemed a more viable option and, setting his coffee down and ruffling his hair to make sure it was properly mussed, Rishley went inside to investigate via opening the door.

Needless to say, said door did not fall off, and it had a rather interesting someone on the other side. Dressed entirely in gray, from bowler hat to wing-tipped shoes, stood a man of short, stocky stature with three papers clutched firmly in his hand. Rishley so towered over this fellow that the man had to look straight up (and that pudgy neck was quite difficult to tilt at such an angle) to see our poet.

“M-m-mister Ris-ris-rishley?” the man said, having the unhappy malady of a rather prominent stutter. 

Rishley stared a moment, not sure how to react; to invite the man in would certainly break his poetic mystique, but not to invite the man (who knew his name!) inside would be equally ruffling. Rishley had never been presented with this particular predicament before and had no idea how to respond. So. He didn't.

Rishley merely turned on his heel and stalked back to his coffee, his tea, and his unrolled cigarettes, taking in hand the paper and beginning to craft said smoking device. The pudgy fellow, confused, dipped his gray head into the doorway and called for Rishley again. When no answer came from the cigarette-rolling fellow on the porch, the stocky gray man stepped into the doorway, then the living room, and cautiously wandered toward Rishley.

“M-m-mister Rishl-rishley,” he stammered, holding out those three leaves of paper with dark black typewriter ink marring their perfect white, “You ha-ha-have to read-d-d these.”

Rishley licked the paper of his cigarette and held it in front of him, studying it briefly, then put it in his mouth and gallantly reached out for these papers he had to read. Rishley still did not speak, taking the documents into his deceased garden and stalking about for a moment before scanning over them, flamboyantly twirling and sitting near an old oak tree that had one brown leaf still clinging to it. The little rotund fellow ran outside to follow Rishley, standing over him like an oblong boulder. Rishley turned his head up, squinting as the sun pierced his eyes, and handed the three papers back to the little gray man with nary a word. 

“I am M-mister Gro-gro-grotton. Y-you must v-v-vacate th-this ho-hou-house, M-mister Rishley,” Grotton, as was the gray fellow's name, explained, feeling that Rishley did not, perhaps, understand the contents of the returned documents.

Rishley gave Grotton a rather haughty little look and leaned back on his hands, pressing the dirt into his palms. He lifted his brown brows one at a time and Rishley put his weight on one hand, unrolled a white cotton sleeve, and repeated the gesture with the other arm. Then, slowly, Rishley stood, brushed the dirt from his black wool pants, and gave a nod to Grotton. He sensed that there was only so far silence could take him in this matter and was forced to actively engage Grotton in communication, despite his revulsion for both man and chatter.

“My good man,” Rishley began slowly, taking his time chewing over his words and measuring them to craft the most dramatic equation possible, “You seem to suggest that my home is not my home, that my land not my land, and that I have, in fact, been told to remove my very person – my being – from this plot. Now, sir, I ask of you: what would you do if you you had been presented with three rather dryly composed pieces of paper that stated in no uncertain terms that you were no longer living in this particular location?” 

At that moment, another strange, and exceedingly loud, noise permeated through the house and into the garden, capturing Rishley's attention and prompting Grotton to attempt a rather fuddled explanation of what could have possibly caused a sound of that volume in the middle of nowhere. Rishley, now entirely out of his element, wracked his brain for something – anything – poetic to do or say and settled on walking quickly back to his broken lawn chair and taking his coffee (now quite cold) in hand, drinking it in large, thirsty gulps. Grotton followed, tripping over brambles and briers. 

“M-m-mister Rishley! You have-haven't the time, s-sir, to sit and sip t-t-tea! You m-must b-b-be gone so the n-new inhabitants can t-t-t-take their p-p-place!” 

Twigs snapped, more strange and loud sounds came from just outside the door, and wagon wheels squeaked to a stop while horns honked and feet hopped down from a three-foot height. Shouts, cries of unloading and the dispensing of tasks, and another very loud sound (all the more painful to the ear by the close proximity) made Rishley wince. But never once did he turn in his chair to peer out his front window; he remained quite turned to his dying garden. 

Then, as something seemed to roar from just behind his front door, Rishley, coffee cup firmly in hand, stood and walked over to Grotton. He leaned over so his clean-shaven face was nearly pressed against the pudgy fellow's pink skin, and said, “Coffee,” before turning into the house, heaving the mug against the wall (and leaving a rather pretty lattice pattern of brown) and throwing the door open.

The colors were ridiculous; the bright greens, rich blues, vibrant reds, and all that sparkling – it hurt Rishley's eyes, which had grown lovingly accustomed to the absence and presence of color (as well as the occasional brown). And the colors seemed to never stop! As far as Rishley's green eyes could see there were cages and wagons of gilded yellow, rainbows of fabrics and glittering diamonds (or maybe just mirrors). The sensory overload was so much, Rishley hardly noticed when all of these twinkling things began to move. There were people aboard these wagons, unloading boxes and cavorting brightly. Toward the back, there was some long gray something that lifted and then disappeared into a bag. That roar came again from another wagon, then the gray thing made that horrible sound that Rishley had heard first. He stood dumbstruck, completely at a loss: what would Dumas do? Verlaine? Pushkin? What would they do if the circus appeared at their homes?

While Rishley futilely canvassed his mind for what various authors might or might not do, a man in a black tuxedo came out of the grandest wagon and looked to his left and right then, with an authoritative walk, went right to the front door. Grotton, who had hitherto been hidden by Rishley's horrified frame, peeked out and shoved his way toward the tuxedoed man, nervously gripping the papers.

“H-he read-d-d them, M-mister G-Garridan, b-but-t...” Garridan waved Grotton off, sparing the man (and us) any further stuttering utterances. 

Garridan, in his self-assured, showman's way, dipped right in front of Rishley and smiled brightly, mimicking that glistening glimmer of the caravan, “Mister Rishley, then, I presume! Delighted to make your acquaintance! May I present to you the famed, the wonderful, guaranteed-to-tickle-your-senses: Monsieur Garridan's Cirque Voyant! Indeed, indeed – but you must wonder: what is this fantastical scene doing in my humble home? Well, you see, we have decided to settle down. To put down roots. Make honest men of ourselves! Oh, yes, the circus life is a gifted life, a merry life, but there need be something more, don't you think?”

Rishley, still dazed by the overabundance of color (and now verbiage), gave a slight incline of his head before holding a hand up, “Wait – I fear I must stop you,” he said slowly, unsure of himself. “You cannot simply take my home...”

“Certainly not!” Garridan agreed loudly, looking behind him. As if on cue, his performing comrades all laughed. “No, no, we have bought this home and this forest! Why, here is the deed!” And, lo, Garridan produced from up his sleeve a remarkably formal piece of paper with the word DEED gaudily stamped on it in large, swirling letters. He quickly pulled it back when Rishley reached out to take it, only permitting our tragic poet to gloss over the words – certainly not to touch the precious paper. 

It was, unfortunately for Rishley (and how fortunate for us!), quite legal and binding. You see, Rishley had been living on land that was Rishley land for centuries. Unfortunately, it was not Rishley land in his century, having been lost by his great-grandfather (or grand-uncle, the two were often confused) in a rather poorly made bet regarding a cow, a pond, and a heavy rock. However, the wager was put down under a time of rather heavy inebriation, as such bets often are, and nothing ever really came of it. So it was with great surprise that Rishley discovered the deed was not only not his, but had also been handed to this circus by someone unbeknownst to him. He turned around to look at his empty home and then back at Garridan.

“Give me five minutes,” Rishley said, ducking inside to pack his coffee, his tea, and his tobacco.

 


	2. Chapter Two: Poisoned Food!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep leaving feedback - I need your kudos to keep releasing chapters...

Suitcase in hand, our reluctant hero walked away from his previously quiet home. He did not look over his shoulder, he did not indulge in any overflowing prose of heartbreak and dire pain. It seemed, for a moment, that the uprooting of his very existence pushed Rishley from unfailingly poetic to naturally pragmatic. He pondered what he would do, where he would go, what he would eat, who he knew, and discovered that he had no answers at all. He walked absently, steps jagged and rather drunken, with an idle disinterest in the chirping birds and lively greenery that cut into the path he followed. His tall frame bordered on alluringly comical, gangly limbs and large ears rather prominent (especially without a hat, which really was the fashion of the day), but his face was nothing sort of calamitous.

Rishley had started walking toward the town simply out of habit – he never went anywhere else – and by the time he got there, his stomach was rumbling. For the first time in many, many years, Rishley dined out. There was a little corner inn, bistro, restaurant, whatever you want to call it, with a funny little red-and-white awning and a skinny girl of no more than fifteen or so at the front. Rishley wandered toward the kitschy place, eying the girl as he had eyed the mosquito.

“And a girl, so thin, stood in front of the food I was to eat; I wondered if, perhaps, there was something more notorious, more dangerous, in this little town than it let on. After all, if their food was good, would she not eat it? Perhaps they are on to my investigation, this town, and they have set out to poison me...” Rishley whispered to himself as he crossed toward the girl. Once there, he said in a gravely tone just under his breath, “One.”

The girl, who knew Rishley only by reputation as the strange man who lived alone in the woods (a standard in childhood lore), was moderately startled to see him in person – and to discover that he was not nearly as disturbingly ugly as the other children would have led her to believe. With a shy smile and a quick check of her hair, she showed him to a lonely table of infinitely better quality than his old lawn chair, and ran back inside to dig out some bread for him.

Rishley, safe in his seat, continued to write his newest novel, muttering to himself. He dug through his suitcase for a piece of paper and a quill (his favorite one, of course, with the elaborate swirl, for this was a budding work of genius). Obviously, Rishley carried no ink in his suitcase (those crisp white shirts!) and he had to wait for the girl to return, bread in hand, to bark out the word to her. She gladly obliged.

And so, one piece of bread in hand and a stew on the way, Rishley wrote. He paused. He crossed out. He wrote more. On and on this went until, finally, the girl (who had been standing just to the side, watching Rishley as if he were a sideshow from the very circus he just left) dared to speak.

“Whassat you're writin'?” she said quietly, voice so soft it made up for her rather poor grammatical instruction.

“I am writing a novel,” Rishley said, looking over at the girl in irritation. This was the third time today he had to speak to someone he did not know and he was a little tired of people in general.

“A novel?” she continued, despite Rishley's obvious tone, “I really only read the Bible.”

Rishley looked up sharply, “The Bible? That is all you read?” he asked, alarmed into interaction. “Why, that is a sin in and of itself! Not to experience the poems of lonely paths to lonely ponds or stories of a bird-less wood or tragedies of a dead rabbit in a pool of water...” And Rishley went on, subjecting the poor girl to his own dreadful poems, stories, and tales until she finally said bluntly:

“No'ne 'ere reads those thin's.”

“You mean to tell me, girl, that everyone here merely reads the Bible? You have never heard On Winter's Wings I Pray Thee,” again, reader, do not feel bad: that was one of Rishley's early works, “or Half Doth Mine Eyes?”

“Maybe in the ci-y, but not 'ere,” the skinny girl replied, feeling rather belittled, “God's all we need 'ere.”

Rishley began to ignore the girl, who was so clearly of inferior intellect, and pondered then how, exactly, he might get to this city where people must have (surely!) heard of him, or at the very least, know more than simply the Bible. He shoved his paper and quill into his bag again and stood up, chair ripping across the ground, while resolutely looking from left to right. It was at this point Rishley realized he had no idea where the city was, nor how to get there. Fortunately, the girl was still there, eying this oddity that had fallen into her family's inn.

“How,” he commanded, still irked that he was speaking – that mystique! “do I get to the city?”

The girl pointed off toward the edge of town, “Three towns o'er, they 'ave a train. Issa long walk, though. You'd really be be'er off wit a 'orse.”

A horse. Which Rishley distinctly did not have. This was of no matter, though, for Rishley merely scoffed at the idea of taking the recommended route to anywhere.

“Thank you, no, girl. I shall walk; after all, it is through pain our sufferings are borne!” and, flipping a coin toward the skinny child, Rishley took himself and his flowery language off to the edge of town – and beyond it.


	3. Chapter Three: A Quiet Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky you! TWO chapters this morning... don't forget to leave your kudos & share ....

There was an awful lot of walking that we will just gloss over; I assume you know what movement through towns is like and there is no reason to subject ourselves to that sort of monotony. It was a long journey, there were a lot of (Rishley thought) aggravating people, and a few truly awful poems composed out of it all, but on the whole, there was nothing very remarkable. Rishley very wisely decided to save his money (his great-grandfather or grand-uncle had managed to acquire a good sum at some point after the notorious bet had been forgotten) for whenever he reached the city and slept, mostly, under the stars. He figured that this was not only practical but also extremely authorial of him and spent many nights patting himself on the back before bed. Such evenings outside gave birth to fine, quality literary pieces such as One Star Do I See and An Evening Too Short, the former of which I have taken the liberty of adding below:

A time, in short, of one little glow  
but what, oh what, is it I know?  
A wish I shall make, a candle shall blow  
under the wing of that great Mother Sky.  
Never, oh never, will I let you die  
tucked under my soul, little star, as I lie  
One Star do I see, fly on star, fly.

Rishley would very carefully cart this poem around with him until the day he perished, to serve as a reminder of all that he had seen and done. He told no one, but I think he may have thought One Star Do I See was his crowning literary achievement. But I digress. 

After having walked, in his words “one-hundred-and-seventy-four-and-a-half! miles, no less, maybe more!”, Rishley finally entered the town with the fabled train. It was a quiet town; there were no colors to offend Rishley's senses. In fact, the entire burg seemed bathed in an uninteresting sepia tone. A single dirt road stretched up and over a hill, its length dotted with dilapidated buildings in varying shades of brown. As Rishley's eyes wandered from the buildings on the left to the buildings on the right, a light burst of wind shuffled him forward and picked up the dust of the road, blowing it over his remarkably pristine (for, somehow, Rishley had always managed to stop and practice good hygiene every day) ensemble. Disturbed by the imperfection, Rishley darted to one side of the street, taking cover under the buildings' brown awnings. He stalked down the street in an attempt to find a ticket office or the train station – or even the train, his tall frame pitching forward with each step, and then stopped. None of these buildings proclaimed what they housed! Peeking in windows did not seem to help either, so Rishley walked back out to the middle of the empty street, rubbed his neck, and turned in three perfect circles. 

A few structures were identifiable, once the poet stopped spinning around. There was a town hall at the top of the hill, banners torn and lightly fluttering in the dust-ridden wind. In the valley, a library – books left on their rotting shelves. Some sort of empty general store stood in the middle of the square (which was really more of an asterisk), and, just beyond the town, on a hill of its own, stood the proverbial haunted house. 

It was, far and away, the most interesting thing in the town. From where Rishley stood, he could not see anything but the dark frame of a very clearly empty house. It was an interesting shape, full of spikes and points, but rather dissatisfying from his angle. 

Rishley pondered this bizarre town, clearly empty, and said aloud, “What in the name of the Muse,” he had a muse, you see, but more on her later, “could have possibly happened here!”

I would imagine you assumed Rishley would stalk right to the house (which we have rather unfairly deemed haunted without much proof) and open it up, perhaps find a goblin or a ghoul or fall through the floor and that would be that. Or, maybe, since he is our protagonist, he would stalk to the house and open it up and solve whatever great mystery it possessed, obtain a new muse (after all, why would I have mentioned her otherwise?), and then continue forward to the city. Well, quite frankly, you would be wrong. You do Rishley a disservice to assume he would act so brashly. Remember, reader, that he is, first and foremost, a writer. No, he did not head right for the house; he went to the library. It is a reasonable assumption that a town of this size, in this time, would keep records of itself and, realistically, there were only two places those would go: the city hall with its frayed banners at the top of the hill or the library, in the valley and infinitely easier for Rishley to reach. So, motivated both by a sense of brilliant camaraderie and a whole lot of laziness, Rishley walked to the library.

(It was pointed out to me that it was, perhaps, callous of me to deem Rishley's decision lazy; after all, the man had just walked many miles (if not one-hundred-and-seventy-four-and-a-half) and his tiredness is wholly justified. My apologies, Mister William Rishley. You simply took the easiest path, which is actually commendable, given that philosophers, physics majors, and mathematicians everywhere would argue that the easiest path is likely the best one.)

I would not lie to you, reader, the library was quite a spooky one. When Rishley opened the door, it quite unceremoniously fell off its hinges and right into a very surprised Mister William Rishley's hands. He struggled a moment to place the cobweb-ridden piece of wood aside then, swiping his hands over his black wool, he walked into the dusty, deserted library. 

It was entirely dark, slivers of light littered with swirling pieces of dust daring to eke into the grandiose room, illuminating floorboards and shelves eerily. The sparse lighting was, Rishley eventually deduced, due to long dark, thick, curtains and an occasional two-by-four nailed resolutely into the window. The curtains, black velvet, looked almost new – not a single tatter or dust mite tinged their perfection. Rishley continued to look around and decided to embrace the muted, sinister tone of the room rather than rip the curtains down; it was more poetic that way. He took a step forward, thick sound of his heel echoing through the library, bouncing off books and lifting to the ceiling. Despite the dust, the clear lack of inhabitants, and the overwhelming sense of foreboding doom, the library was in perfect order, shelves still arranged neatly (they had not rotted through yet; that would happen ten years and a week from when our Rishley discovered the strange town). 

After procuring a pen from behind a librarian's desk, Rishley began to skulk up and down aisles, silently browsing the literary works. He was, admittedly, distracted by a few philosophy books and a rare collection of poetry, but eventually, and after whispering several new poems of a decidedly darker tone than One Star Do I See, Rishley found his way to the necessary area of the library. 

His hunch had been correct; the town stored its documents, its deeds and its histories, in the library. Mister Rishley put his suitcase on the floor to liberate his hands, flexing his fingers and curling them up as he dawdled over the many shelves of material. Slowly, Rishley poured over the titles of various ledgers, the curling scripts on books' spines, and every so often, he tugged one down from its home on the shelf and set it delicately beside his suitcase. When nearly all of the books and papers that had previously made their residence on the shelves had been sent on holiday to the floor, Rishley sat beside them, took out his papers and that pen he had borrowed, and systematically began to read. His gestures, as always, were probably larger than any normal person may have bothered to make while investigating, or even just reading. As he read, some lines were spoken aloud (in case they might sound delicious for his next novel or poem; he was an unashamed plagiarist, a firm believer that nothing written was truly unique anymore, so why not piece lovely sounding prose together for a better work?) and every so often, Rishley would mark down this or that. In one remarkable stroke of genius, Rishley penned, and I quote directly: “'It was then I realized how very like a detective I was; the author, it seems, was nothing less than a sleuth! I would uncover the mystery piece by piece and, as I did, it would find its way into my newest novel' – for, perhaps, a murder mystery? with a dragon!”

The collection of who-owned-what was remarkably uninteresting and Rishley set that aside fairly promptly, giving it a cursory gloss for names rather than places. There were diaries, newspapers, letters... on and on and on. To an experienced historical researcher, each piece of invaluable reference would have been gold; to Rishley, they were either useful or useless. He cast aside anything unpoetical or without a sense of prose (he had, also, at that time, a particular love of the tercet, so anything without it (or if he was unable to create one in his own mind) wound up cast aside in the worthless pile). Rishley worked long into the night, pouring over those selected documents and diaries and crafting from them a very interesting tale that he scribbled down on his papers. The story he contrived, fleshed out a little more (and painful literary devices removed) for the sake of a narrative, was this:


	4. Chapter Four: Addlesbury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you still reading? Another night, another chapter, another quest for reblogs. How many notes will I see tomorrow morning? Enough for the next chapter?

Chapter Four: Addlesbury

Some years ago, this town – the town of Addlesbury – was a thriving little town. Nestled deep in the woods with the only train station for many miles, it was a sort of mecca for the various people trying to go from obscure, vast nothingness to a greater, more cultivated city. It was a bustling place, boasting a large library, three parks, homes that reached to the sky, and a few neat little shops. Not a bad place, all in all. Before the birth of the train, Addlesbury had been a prominent provider of wood to the nearest city (which also happened to be Rishley's destination), thus Addlesbury had been blessed with a train station of its very own. It was populated, happy, and all around a very lively place to live. 

Obviously, something disrupted this happy existence to which the people of Addlesbury had grown accustomed. It was the summer right after the train had come to the little lumber jacking town in the woods, bringing flannel and axes while taking away loads of trees. Children played outside, as children do in the summertime, boys running around through daffodils and lilacs as their sisters tried desperately to pick the same said flowers. The newest and most fashionable of games this particular summer was entitled “Dart”. It was a simple game, no rules, really. A few stone's throws outside town, a group of children would play about and when it was one's turn, that child would wait for the sound of an oncoming train. Then, the child would dart across the the tracks, the ultimate goal being simply “to get to the other side”. The children, mostly the boys, were absolutely in love with this very dangerous game and did not even consider the possible squishy repercussions, so on they went, darting back and forth over the tracks.

The doomed child (you knew there would be one) went by the name of Michael Peters and had a younger sister who tagged along after him named Elizabeth Peters. Their father was a woodcutter, like many in the town, and they were generally liked children, both blessed with unfailingly good looks. He was no more than ten years old, Elizabeth was about seven – maybe six. On the day in question, Michael had met up with several of his friends and they thought it was a perfect day to play “Dart” down by the tracks so, Michael, his friends, and (unbeknownst to him) Elizabeth all wandered out of Addlesbury and followed the tracks to the favored “Dart”-playing location. 

There was a lot of goofing off and Elizabeth probably made herself known at some point and several groans ensued. Eventually, one boy did hear a train and roused the signal. Michael went first, he always went first, and wandered his resolute ten-year-old body toward the tracks. He got up the hill and turned around to beam proudly down at his friends, waving quickly. Blonde curls shimmered in the hot July sun, mimicking Elizabeth's same blonde hair as she looked up at him; these were two golden children – and not for the sake of a more tragic, poetically linked story. Elizabeth watched her brother quietly, holding a bouquet of flowers firmly in her hands, clutched against her chest, gravely silent. Michael turned around to watch the train begin its approach.

The children had timed this game fairly well – after the first few kids, they figured out that a count to ten from the first sight of the train gave them enough time to both jump and feel the exhilarating whoosh of a train nearly killing them. Michael, however, misjudged. While he had waved, the train came into sight – and he started counting just three seconds too late. The other children knew this was a problem and started shouting at Michael, but trains are extremely loud. He jumped at the wrong time. He jumped, the inevitable happened, and the other children ran to the top of the hill with the idle hope that their friend was still alive.

Elizabeth stayed at the bottom, still holding those daffodils and lilacs close to her small chest. She stared at the spot from where Michael had jumped, frozen and horrified. The other kids, discovering Michael's body, started shouting and one ran back to town. The game was decidedly over.

Adults ran in, Michael's body was taken back to town, grief ensued and a funeral was planned. Elizabeth, meanwhile, never let go of those flowers. The night after the funeral for her brother, she slipped into bed, flowers on her pillow and her head right next to them. She was half asleep when a voice jolted her awake. There, standing at the foot of her bed, was Michael. A pristine, perfect, fading wisp of Michael. He smiled charmingly at his sister and gestured for her to follow him.

“Come on, Liz,” he said quietly, “Don't wake them up, come on.”

Elizabeth rose, flowers in her hands, and dutifully followed her brother out of her room, down the stairs, and out of the house. He led her through the town and toward the tracks, to where the train ran over him. Michael pointed to the ground, still stained with his blood, and told his sister to lay down. She obeyed. Trains do not stop when the sun falls or to conveniently save a girl in a story. Elizabeth also died on those tracks. 

It was here the accounts dwindle; the children wrote in their various journals and diaries of seeing Michael Peters' ghost but the adults left no word one way or another on these sorts of accounts. There were a few more tales of dead children on those tracks, the same spot each occurrence, and as time wore on and deaths kept happening, people moved. They petitioned a few years after Elizabeth perished for the train to stop running through their town, but it was really rather moot; within ten years of Michael's death, there was not a soul left in the town. There were a few letters about a disease (Bloodman's Curse, they called it, giving a rather harrowing name to a rather harrowing disease in which blood simply coursed out of the unhappy victim's mouth and nose until he or she was entirely drained dry) ripping through the remaining townsmen hurriedly, but it seemed that, by and large, people left of their own accord. 

(In his notes here, Rishley decided to link the Bloodman's Curse and poor Michael's demise, naming Michael the Bloodman and his curse was upon the entire town and so on and so forth, which is all very interesting in terms of Rishley's remarkable imagination, but not quite true, so I have taken the liberty of readjusting this particular part of his tale for the sake of a modicum of reality. And, honestly, to spare us a very melodramatic scene in which Michael returns from the dead to proclaim he is the Bloodman, always has been, and sucks his life from the children he ran over with his ghost train then needed more hosts or some such and laid his curse upon the town. Very silly stuff, really.)

And so, the train having taken care of the majority of the townspeople and the Bloodman's Curse eliminating the rest quite efficiently, Addlesbury was left a veritable ghost town. When the train stopped running through Addlesbury, people stopped bothering to remember it and, slowly, the happy little town faded into drab oblivion. If people bothered to remember it at all, they merely thought of Addlesbury as the place with the train and carried on their little lives. With transportation now broken to those towns in the woods, communication also ceased and people reverted to their pre-train existences in the towns around the now-decrepit Addlesbury.


End file.
